


Marguerene

by armand_dandrezy



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, The Scarlet Pimpernel - All Media Types
Genre: Dressing Room Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 07:34:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6602236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armand_dandrezy/pseuds/armand_dandrezy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marguerite Blakeney seeks to impress her new friend, Irene Adler, by giving her a late-night tour of the Comédie Francaise in Paris.  When they reach her old dressing room, however, they find that their chemistry extends beyond the intellectual. Ahem, ahem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marguerene

**Author's Note:**

> Rather shameless bit of smut written for fun for the benefit of some friends, which eventually exploded into something that I wanted to get some more eyes on. I'm thinking I might like to go back and add to the beginning (for more context) and end (for more closure) at some point, but until then, here, have a bit of over-the-top porn.

Irene's eyes wander over her shoulder to meet Marguerite's behind her. Marguerite's pinkened cheeks draw taut with each halting, quavering breath she takes, allowing Irene to become ever more enamored of Margot's high, regal cheekbones. In a flash, Marguerite reaches backwards and slams shut the latch to the door; the sharp report of the bolt sliding to reverberates in the silent chamber as the decisiveness of Marguerite's action sinks into the two women's consciousness.

Irene turns around to face Marguerite, whose hand remains clutching the laces to Irene's corset. Her turning motion pulls Marguerite's arm around her torso, Marguerite's unsteady steps bringing her into Irene's aura, close enough that wayward strands of the American woman's hair brush imperceptibly against the Frenchwoman's neck.

Marguerite leans downward as if to press her lips to Irene's, but stops short, her eyes searching Irene's for a mirror of her own desire. Irene, instinctively licking her lips, seizes Marguerite by the neck and completes the motion for her, kissing her with a passion that she had always suspected no man in Christendom could ever arouse in her.

Where before Marguerite had hesitated at the precipice of acting upon her longing for Irene, she now tumbled utterly over the cliff without hope of finding purchase on the outcroppings of reluctance or fear. Her arms snake forward and enfold Irene, her hands infiltrating through the lacing of Irene's corset to lavish wordless admiration on her lean musculature and tanned adventure-seeking skin through her chemise. Her lips part with little urging to admit Irene's tongue, the essence of chocolate truffles and butter cookies still familiar in their mouths.

Irene feels her senses crumble in awe of the French woman whose sharp jawline she now cradled between her hands - the bouquet of English rose petals pervading her hair, the taste of tea lingering on her lips, the unexpected strength of her limbs wearied by tribulation and renewed by triumph, which Marguerite has been exerting solely to the tasks of massaging Irene's back and holding her tightly until any notion that the narrowest ray of light might have of coming between them was obliterated.

 

As Marguerite's hands melt away any tension in Irene's muscles and any vestiges of uncertainty in her nerves, the lacing of Irene's corset soon wriggles loose, giving way in fits and starts until a cool breath of air on her back alerts Irene to its surrender. Irene's hands slide down Marguerite's neck to her shoulders with the deftness of a practiced pickpocket, pressing Marguerite bodily away long enough for the folds of her corset to tumble stiffly away.

With the warmth of Irene's flesh only a sheer layer of linen away, and herself clad only in her shift, Marguerite discards any pretense of delicacy with the same vigor as Irene discarded her corset. Margot lifts her left knee between Irene's, bringing her thigh to rest firmly between Irene's legs, rubbing against her through her drawers. Marguerite feels the beads of sweat forming in the small of her back and a heat rising in her cheeks, conscious of her immodest hope of parting the open seam of Irene's undergarments with her efforts.

The feel of Marguerite's leg against her sex sends a wave of electricity rippling through Irene's torso up her back, until her lips are drawn reluctantly away from Marguerite's by the writhing of her shoulders. Taking the moment to catch her breath, Irene regards Marguerite with a mischievous smirk. Her hands on either side of the actress's slender neck, Irene pulls the sleeves of Marguerite's slip down to reveal her shoulders before gripping the fabric tightly in her fists and pulling Marguerite with her as she backpedals, her hips colliding with Marguerite's old dressing room table against the wall. Marguerite reaches behind Irene to toss aside paintbrushes and powder cases like so many thoughts of her husband in England, shimmying her arms out of her sleeves and up over her collar before draping her arms over Irene's shoulders to kiss her yet again.

Free of the support of Marguerite’s arms, the Frenchwoman’s chemise slides off of her breasts, halting only briefly on her firm nipples before tumbling off and collecting around her feet on the floor. Irene’s hands converge on Margot’s breasts at once, caressing them in the crook between her thumbs and forefingers with an expertise that elicits questions from Marguerite’s mind and a moan from her throat. 

“Wh-where and...with whom did you learn such a tender touch, Mademoiselle Adler?”

Irene chuckles. “Few of any sort, and none of name...I simply followed the exploits of others and...picked up a few tricks. One lesson I learned very quickly--” Irene leaned in to whisper to Marguerite, almost lip-to-lip “--the really fun activities are rather hard in a slip.”

Marguerite flashes the familiar smile that won over the hearts of theatre-goers (and tautened breeches and pantalons alike in her day), daubed with a hint of hunger in the curling of her lips. She covers Irene’s hands with her own, pressing them into her breasts for one long, languorous moment before pulling them away and placing them on the edges of her bureau mirror, an extravagantly large Saint-Gobain glass gifted to the Comédie-Francaise from King Louis himself, gilt with flowers that provide ample purchase for Irene as Marguerite violently strips the last of her undergarments off her legs. Marguerite circumscribes Irene’s cloven purse with her tender, ladylike hands, feeling Irene’s gooseflesh roughen in the cool air beneath her fingertips.

Irene, blinking away the dazzle in her eyes, forces herself to breathe steadily and deeply, trying to keep the tingling from Marguerite’s featherlike touch from breaking her facade of emotional control. She hooks her dainty feet and firm calves around the dressing table legs below her current perch to keep from slipping off and from kicking her newfound lover with a wayward twitch in the heat of the moment.

“Ooooh...don’t make me wait, madamoiselle…” croons Irene, choosing her words of address to lure Marguerite back to her younger days as an unmarried actress rather than the baronet’s wife she is now. Furthering the seduction, Irene undulates her torso, causing her breasts to bobble enticingly. Marguerite’s clever eye perceives how closely the tan of Irene’s breasts matches the rest of her skin. Whatever corner of the world she’d seen clearer skies in, she must have been very naughty there.

Eager to please her new friend and lover (and in no mood herself for further teasing), Marguerite lunges forward suddenly to taste Irene’s tongue with her own again, her slim finger slipping between Irene’s cleft lips to explore the mouth of her sex. Irene seizes the crown ornamentation at the top of the mirror to steady herself, her right hand tousling the dark curls atop Marguerite’s head. Margot’s ravenousness is piqued by the wetness she feels drenching her finger as it slips further into Irene’s dark and delicious deep. Drawing back, Marguerite seizes Irene’s breast in her mouth, gingerly plucking the nipple between her teeth with as much care as she could manage, ready to release her at any moment in response to a cry or pained hiss that never came. Instead, Irene’s hand on her head urges her on, harder, a wordless communiqué that soon finds the perfect pressure signaled with a moan.

Marguerite renders a series of rapid, wet kisses along the meridian of Irene’s body, proceeding downwards towards her sex. Beneath her lips, the Frenchwoman felt Irene’s belly muscles tense and quiver under her skin as her now-doubled fingers continue to curl and press against the walls of her bottomless pit. Marguerite’s head and Irene’s hand race downwards, each trying to outpace the other in joining the former’s mouth with the latter’s pouting-lipt mouth.

Marguerite’s eyes flick upwards to look into Irene’s, seemingly leagues away as her gaze skips and brushes along Irene’s long, well-toned body. “Let’s waste no more time, shall w--MMMPH! Mmmm…”

The Frenchwoman’s flirtation is interrupted by the sudden rush of tender, warm flesh into her mouth, brought there by an arching of Irene’s back and the pulling of her hand.

“I-I-I agree...completely, ohhhh…” moaned Irene, a smile of mischief struggling to form against the involuntary gaping of her jaw as waves of sensation flooded through her, Marguerite showing an unexpected expertise between the gentle suction of her mouth and vigorous strokes of her fingers.

Irene’s fingers wander through Marguerite’s long, dark tresses, like five travelers on unfamiliar city streets -- aimless, urgent, increasingly desperate to reach the relief of the destination they’re so rapidly approaching. Marguerite draws the rough surface of her tongue up and down along the button at the head of Irene’s notch. A cocktail of sounds reaches her ears, from the rustling of her nose in the soft down of Irene’s sex, to the wet, heavy squishes of her fingers churning inside her companion, to the hitching gasps of the woman in question. Irene, dazzling lights already beginning to dance behind her closed eyelids, reaches down blindly to coax a third finger from Marguerite’s hand into her, groaning with the added pressure that her sex was more than happy to accommodate.

“Ohh, Marguerite...your talents...clearly lie beyond the stage, and the ballroom…” Where Irene’s hand once carelessly tousled Marguerite’s rich ringletted hair, it now clenched a fistful of it, aligning the angle of Margot’s lips and tongue with the tilting of her hips. Marguerite feels a purr growing in her throat as her face is pressed into Irene, filling her mouth with the tender skin and warm flow of Irene’s cloven purse. Marguerite breathes in deeply through her nose to prepare to render another salvo of lingual attention on Irene’s bud, her nose and mind filling with Irene’s rich, provocative scent -- familiar, but never before so visceral or given such eroticism by context. The Frenchwoman, bent nearly double with legs broadly spread, gingerly reaches down to her own sex, daubing a slender finger just between her lips, searching for the wetness she already knows is there.

Marguerite works at Irene’s furrow with the patient attentiveness of a watchmaker, and with twice the artistry, pressing her tongue over and again into the flat of raw skin beneath Irene’s tender button. She thrusts her bundled fingers deep inside Irene, the tips curled upwards to rub and catch the walls of Irene’s inlet, the waters of Irene’s arousal beginning to pool in Margot’s palm. Irene, still gripping tightly to the figurehead of the mirror, feels an electric tingle forming in her fingers and toes. The tingle creeps inexorably up her limbs towards her center, leaving numbness in their wake as Irene feels a hot pink flush overtake her face and body. “Margot...Margot, don’t...stop… yes...Y-E-E-ES…”

With Irene’s moaned urgings in her ears, Marguerite throws herself facelong into Irene’s quivering quim, enfolding Irene’s bud with her lips and rendering a barrage of warm lashes against it with her tongue. Her fingers writhe deep inside Irene’s sex, exploring her every corner, attending to every crevice. Galvanized by the feel of Irene’s walls tightening around her hand, Marguerite holds nothing back, her mouth ravenous and her hand utterly unbridled.

Irene’s impassioned, almost commanding moans begin to crescendo, a shuddering beginning to build in the depths of her undercarriage. The wooden joints of the makeup table creak more and more loudly as Irene’s feet, still hooked around the table’s legs, jolt and flinch with Marguerite’s every lick. Between each moan, a gasp for air, her voice pitching higher and higher, knuckles white from clutching the mirror’s sculpted frame like a swimmer to driftwood facing a waterfall, the inevitability of the oncoming precipice foremost in the nebulous haze of her consciousness.

“Ohhh...ohhh...y-yes, keep at it...OHH! Margot, my lover...nearly…*nearly*...OHHHHHH!!” All of Irene’s senses seem to collapse on her at once, her sense of equilibrium utterly unanchored as if hurtling through a maelstrom. The rush of pleasurable emotion plunges from her sex throughout her extremities, the accumulated electric tingling rushing back to her fingertips and toes from whence it came. Tensing herself, Irene clings to the wave for what feels like minutes of high-riding ecstasy, before collapsing her arched back and neck against the damp, hot wood of the table with a sharp, final moan of catharsis.

Marguerite renders one last kiss on Irene’s sex, licking both their lips clean, before dropping backwards to lie down on the pile of clothes behind her, her arm throbbing with the best kind of exhaustion -- that in service of another’s pleasure. Irene’s body slides off of the makeup table like dripping butter on a warm muffin, covering Marguerite with her own tanned skin, slick with sweat. “My dear mademoiselle,” pants Irene, her voice a ragged whisper, “I should have guessed that a woman so renowned for her wit as you would have the most skilled tongue in all of Europe.” With a sign, Irene rolls off to lie next to Marguerite, contemplating the rafters, the two ladies’ chests heaving up and down in synchrony as they attempt to catch their breath.

“You flatter me, Miss Adler, to say so,” replies Marguerite as she absentmindedly toys with Irene’s loosely disheveled hair, Irene’s taste and scent still lingering in her mouth and nose. “I trust you will believe me when I inform you that our liaison was one of the highlights of my lifetime.”

Irene turns to her companion, a facetious furrow in her brow. “But Marguerite -- surely you can’t think that we’ve finished?”

Feigning indignance at Irene’s suggestion, Marguerite clutches at an imaginary set of pearls, finding only her own breast filling her hand.

Irene continued, “Your firm nipples...your flushed face...you may pretend you don’t know what I mean, but to the observant eye, it seems patently clear to me that I have piqued your interest, mademoiselle.” Irene reaches across herself with her far hand, turning herself to face Marguerite as she lightly dances her fingers across Marguerite’s unattended-to breast. “So, my darling Marguerite...if you would be so kind as to look around the room to see if you find any objects you find to your liking...I would be happy to render upon you my...reciprocation.”

Marguerite looks over at Irene, her already smiling lips curling even more broadly with the anticipation of what Irene might do to her. She scans the scattered props and clothes around the room seeking a suitable object, pulling herself up to her feet and padding about the room. She finds and holds up a candelabra, stroking its ornate, undulating shape, her mouth pursed to one side as if in contemplation, before setting it aside with a dismissive shake of her head. After a cursory search of the entire room, including a lengthy peek inside the large two-doored wardrobe in the corner, Marguerite returns to stand over Irene, shrugging with resignation.

The ever-impish Irene, gently biting her tongue as it protrudes from her mouth, points to her purse, which has fallen under the makeup table. “There...in my bag…”  
Marguerite rummages through the small bag, coming across a canvas pouch of deep purple, held closed with a drawstring. Spilling its contents into her palm, Marguerite held a capsule-shaped parcel of brown leather, the size of a walnut, with a pair of bands of polished brass around its equator. Marguerite turns it over in her hands, feeling its curiously smooth-worn surface.

“My dear Mademoiselle Adler, I hardly think such a small--AH!” Marguerite starts when her fingers brush across the clasp holding the contraption shut. As she pulls on the rounded ends, she feels and hears the sliding of dozens of minute hinges inside the expanding accordion of leather. Once the contraption reaches almost two shaftments in length, the dozens of brass rods inside click into place at once, bracing the leather sheathing in place to form a long, cylindrical shaft of a rather provocative size. “Mon dieu...no wonder you’re so cheerful for an unmarried woman. Dare I ask where I find one for myself during Percy’s long excursions?”

Irene stretches her limbs out in a languorous gesture, like a lioness after savoring the fruits of the hunt. With a low, devilish giggle, she replies, “Keep it. I’ve got several.”

Marguerite saunters across the wooden floor, worn smooth by years of Marguerite pacing before the curtain raising, leaping into and out of costumes with her assistants, and seducing her fair share of amorous admirers, the newest of which lies elbow-propped on the floor before her, awaiting her chance to make evident her appreciation. Marguerite kneels, then sits adjacent to Irene atop the carpet of discarded clothing, the two women facing each other with the sides of their thighs pressed together. Marguerite, a grin forcing its way to the surface of her mouth, hands the leather tool -- in her mind, Marguerite wonders if it might be rather more like a weapon -- to Irene, who rolls the familiar item between her palms to warm and smooth the leather.

Irene extends out a toned, firm leg to shuffle her purse from the floor where Marguerite dropped it into her grasp, where she reaches inside to pull out a small flask.

“Surely, Irene, the task of pleasing me shouldn’t be so much of a chore that you’d need a drink to contemplate it,” berates Marguerite, feigning protestation. “At the very least, I hope you intend to share.”

Irene carefully pops open the container and, rather than drinking from it, pours a few drops of clear, honey-like substance atop the tool, using her hands to rub it vigourously into the leather surface. “Not to drink, I’m afraid, lover...rather, a different sort of easing entirely.”

“I begin to doubt your powers of observation; did you not notice…?” To punctuate her point, Marguerite takes Irene’s free hand and presses it to her sex, sopping by now with Marguerite’s fantasies of Irene, made fluid.

Irene blushes despite herself at Marguerite’s sudden motion. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten that I was distracted by having your tongue between my legs,” she replied, pulling her moistened fingers away to touch them to her lips. “And excited or not, I’ve found that a bit of prior preparation helps expand the possibilities of how energetic one can be…”

At this last implication, Irene meets Marguerite’s gaze; where the twinkle of mischief in her eyes was carefree before, her look now carries the weight of impending reality, and Irene is all the happier for it. Marguerite, seeing that the moment for conversation has passed, wordlessly takes Irene by the shoulder and kisses her with a delicate pressure and a deep breath, before rearranging their impromptu bedding for her own comfort. Irene cradles the small of Marguerite’s back as the actress reposes herself, her knees parting to reveal a daisy in waiting.

With the leathered shaft in her left hand, Irene straddles Marguerite’s left thigh, her tender sex pressing plumply against Margot’s skin, its sparse matting of hair like a warm poultice, soaked through with Irene’s own wetness. Irene detects more than a hint of pride in Marguerite’s smirk -- well-earned, she decided. If her screams of pleasure were as loud as they felt, they were probably still echoing in the 12th arrondissement. Irene places one end of her toy on the floor, leaning it against Marguerite’s oyster such that it nestles between her lips by its own weight. Her hands thus freed, Irene places her hands on either of Marguerite’s slender thighs, her thumbs hooking into the twin divots underneath Marguerite’s adductor tendon to grip her thighs in a firm, plodding massage. The subtle back and forth of Marguerite’s body, no more than a half-inch with each of Irene’s squeezes, works the leather shaft against Marguerite’s button, a gentle but nevertheless arousing prelude to what is to come, while Marguerite’s thigh serves the same purpose for Irene.

“Ooh, Miss Adler...not to seem unappreciative, but to be perfectly honest...I’m tired of waiting…”

Marguerite’s hand plunges downwards with the intention of taking the initiative with the tool resting against her, only to have her hand swatted away. “Marguerite, if you were impatient, you need only have asked.” Irene, more than a little eager to put forth her own talents to be judged by the only critic who matters in the moment, grasps the leather shaft firmly by the base and slides it in cautiously, a small gasp escaping her lips at how smoothly it enters; clearly, Marguerite was not exaggerating her anticipation. Irene watches Marguerite’s eyes close, her slender fingers tense and curl against the floor, at the sensation of being filled.

 

* * *

 

Through the corridors and alcoves of the Comédie-Francaise rushes a biting draft from the streets of Paris, carrying the chill of the evening hour and the turmoil of the living city. Wending backstage from hall to hall, the unpleasant zephyr encounters a closed door aglow with the flicker of lamplight behind it. The troubles of the world carried on a breeze sink to the floor, assert themselves beneath the door, and are promptly eviscerated into oblivion by the warm, high, squeal of a woman delighted.

“Oh, oh, OH!” cried the slender woman on the floor, her legs squirming, her teeth bared in the purest of irrepressible smiles.

“Goodness, Marguerite!” replies the woman astride the Frenchwoman’s leg, herself twitching with pleasure as Marguerite’s thigh presses into her. “I must try this angle for myself next time,” says Irene Adler, pumping the leather tool into Marguerite’s inner sanctum with the vigor of a miner and the precision of a surgeon, touching Marguerite’s core...just...so.

Marguerite reaches up with one arm towards Irene, her fingertips barely able to brush the supple underside of Irene’s breast. Irene abruptly leans forward, filling Marguerite’s hand, her cheeks drawn taut in a closed-eye grin of pleasure and devilry. Marguerite’s lips let out a staccato’d chuckle upon feeling Irene’s firm nipple pressing into her palm. The Frenchwoman’s hand massages Irene’s breast without pattern or direction, drawing the crook between her thumb and forefinger along its surface from base to tip, her own rhythms building upon the foundation of the steady, inexorable plunging of Irene’s handheld phallus into her. Straight in, askance out, like the wheel arm of a locomotive. Slowly in, quickly out, like the beating of a heart.

Longing to bring her lover closer to her, Marguerite bends her left knee, grinding the smooth, slick skin of her thigh into her rider, until Irene dips forward to maintain her balance. Irene supports herself on her free arm, soft moans floating up from her throat as Marguerite’s hands minister to her bosom, bubbles of pleasure in her rib cage growing with each pulling motion, then popping on the tip of her nipples with each of Marguerite’s gentle plucks. Marguerite’s half-closed eyes do not escape Irene’s notice.

“Still with me, lover? How does that feel?” asks a smirking Irene, her thrusting motions indefatigable.

“Nnnngghh...mmmm…” comes the French-accented reply.

As the well within Marguerite fills with every pump of the leather-clad dynamo in her sex, delicate muscles of the Frenchwoman’s throat are thrust upward by the arching of her back and neck, her face and neck flushed pink as the hidden flesh between her legs.

Irene glides slickly back and forth on Marguerite's silken thigh, shifting her weight back onto her knees as her right hand comes to rest at the base of Marguerite's torso, the minute ridges of her thumb drawing the actress's engorged clitoris in dizzying, sensuous circles.

A stream of thick wetness flew down around Irene's leather companion, moistening the tight brown pucker between Marguerite's cheeks to soil the clothes on which she lay, matching the unending stream of moans flowing from her mouth into Irene's ears, the Frenchwoman's pleasure feeding Irene's own mounting ecstasy.

“Nnngh...nnnnngh...ohhh...oh-h-h-h…” Marguerite’s moans escalating in pitch, her face a deep flush...

“A-a-a-annhhh…AH!” A whine rising from her throat through her head, culminating in a squeal as Irene’s favorite leather friend nudges Marguerite’s favorite cluster of nerves…

“Mmmm...mmmmhh...mmmmmmhhhggh…” Marguerite’s and Irene’s muscles are aflame, the latter’s with the exertion of invading Marguerite as the Frenchwoman’s secret garden takes firmer hold, the former with keeping her back and neck arched, lest she lose her desperate grip on the fuse of pleasure, burning down rapidly to the impending, cathartic detonation.

"Agggh...agghhh...unnngghhhHHH...nnnnnghhhhHHH…nNNNNGGGHAAAAAHHH!!” Marguerite’s awareness is bombarded with explosions of pleasure and light, her back arching as long spasms of ecstasy course through her body. The Frenchwoman’s barrage of moans, growing in volume and passion, culminates in a primal scream that rattles the room’s occupants, none moreso than the American woman straddling her and the armoire in the corner. At Marguerite’s scream, as if commanded, Irene freezes the actions of her arm, holding the leather toy within for Marguerite’s twitching muscles to continue to grip and squeeze in the throes of la petite mort.

“OHH! OHH! OHH! OHHhh...nnnnngh...mmm…” Wave after euphoric wave rolls through Marguerite’s body, their intensity slowly tapering away as Marguerite savors each one. The long heaves of Marguerite’s chest as she catches her breath a sharp contrast to Irene’s shudders of subdued pleasure. Marguerite’s eyes flutter open to see Irene’s own closed eyes and giggling grin as the American woman clenches Marguerite’s one thigh between her two, voice caught in her throat, unable to produce any sound until, at last, a shaky sigh of contentment emerges.

Irene withdraws her leather traveling companion, wipes it clean, and stows it away before crumpling atop the heap of discarded costumes, now soaked with sweat and the fruits of Marguerite’s secret garden. 

“Marguerite?”

“...y-yes?”

**Author's Note:**

> All due thanks to my collective of friends known as "The Mysterious Pimpernel" for being my first audience, especially to one friend in particular who gave me more links than I ever knew I could use on period-appropriate slang terms. Would love comments and tips if you have 'em.


End file.
